The Angel, The Detective, And The Phone Box
by girl-of-many-faces
Summary: It was only because Sherlock was bored that he took the missing person's case, but after the involvement of three strangers and their phone box he and John begin to realise that they may be in over their heads.
1. The Angel And The Detective

**AN /: I keep seeing these crossovers everywhere, and I started getting inspired. It probably won't be over three chapters unless I get carried away, but I really shouldn't get carried away because I still have to work on 'Tremble'.**

**Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' and all characters within belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I'm just taking them for a joyride, I make no profit from this.

O.o.O.o.O

_**The Angel, The Detective, And The Phone Box**_

"Explain this case to me again,' John says as he peers out the window of the cab that is winding its way through the London traffic in a direction that will soon be clear of the city,' you keep getting vague every time you mention it."

"Blame Lestrade,' Sherlock replies, his fingers moving swiftly over the keypad of his phone,' he wasn't very clear about the details."

"And yet you're still taking the case?"

"Bored."

John sighs and goes back to staring out the window. All that he has managed to glean from Sherlock is that they are headed to somewhere on the outskirts of London to have a look into a missing persons case that the whole of Scotland Yard seems to be baffled about. Any other details he has yet to discover. He is going to be really annoyed if this turns into one of the longer, 'more than meets the eye' type cases, because he has work tomorrow and will need at least six hours sleep if he doesn't want a repeat of the Blind Banker Incident, and Sarah will only cover for him for so long.

The cab pulls away from the busier streets and takes a turn down into a quiet residential lane, going until the driver pulls up outside an estate that is swarming with forensics and police tape. John pays the driver and then steps out of the cab, the wind buffeting at his face like a small scale cyclone. He follows a few steps behind Sherlock, watching as the consulting detective's long coat begins to fan out majestically around his legs, and walks through large wrought iron gates into a large estate surrounding a run-down old manor house, a relic of times long gone, passing several stone statues and one rather dreary looking bird bath. They meet Sergeant Donovan at the front door, which is splintering underneath the clear varnish and hanging on by one rusting hinge. She nods at John curtly before turning to glare at Sherlock.

"Hello, freak,' she says in her usual disapproving tone, crossing her arms and shifting her body weight to a decidedly defensive position. Sherlock smiles pleasantly back at her before walking past, making no effort to retort as if the act is far, far below him, and sweeps into a large foyer full of policemen and the odd forensic.

"Seen anything suspicious yet?" Lestrade asks Sherlock as he appears at the top of a splintering staircase lining the right wall.

"Not exactly,' Sherlock says, his gaze sweeping the room,' care to enlighten me to the finer details that you failed to point out in your text?"

"Well, there've been a lot of disappearances in the area,' Lestrade says,' but none of them were really looked into much until now. The body of one of the missing persons, Mathew Sheppard, was found by a kid and some of his friends a few days ago who came up here to play hide and seek."

"Can I see the body?" Sherlock asks, but he is heading up the stairs towards Lestrade before anyone can tell him no, taking them three at a time and John is struggling to keep up. At the top of the stairs Sherlock follows Lestrade down a corridor and into a room with peeling white wallpaper that smells of damp. A body lies on the floor in the centre of the room, a bald man whose head is tilted at an unnatural angle.

"Window was open at time of death,' Sherlock begins to mutter under his breath,' current position indicates that he was facing away from the door and that he fell immediately to the floor. One of two possibilities; he knew the murderer or the murderer snuck up on him. Murderer must have been very strong."

From there Sherlock falls to his knees, rifling through pockets as he searches for the little things that anyone else would have missed. John stands back, noting the deep purple and green bruises on the man's neck and head. He shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to another, his shoulder beginning to ache as the cold breeze from the open window opposite gushes into the room. Lestrade is standing next to him, his arms crossed and a small frown on his face, waiting patiently and watching keenly. Outside the door there is a low hum of noise, a constant buzz that refuses to die.

"Victim was an amateur photographer,' Sherlock says suddenly as he rises from the ground,' judging by the small but efficient digital camera in the right trouser pocket. Must have wanted to come in and take a few pictures, but was killed before he could as there are no photos of the house on said camera, although there are a few of the garden statues, which suggests that he spent a fair bit of time in the garden. There aren't any notes on him and he looks fairly dishevelled so it's unlikely that he was meeting anyone here."

"Anything else?" Lestrade prompts, looking a bit desperate.

"Nothing yet,' Sherlock says distractedly as he turns,' what do you think of the body, John?"

"Well, the bruises would suggest strangulation at first,' John says, racking his brain for his medical knowledge,' but..."

"But?"

"But the neck was on an angle, which would suggest that it must have been snapped at some point."

"Bit difficult to achieve, that." Lestrade says, looking at the body, and probably thinking the same thing as John. The man is stocky and looks as if he would have put up a good fight. However, there are no signs of a struggle, so the killer would have had to have been very quick and very strong. It was not really a comforting thought that they were looking for a killer with super human strength and speed.

Sherlock is sweeping through the door now, examining the room from the outside. His fingers are all over the doorframe, picking at the splintering wood and rubbing at the mould. John and Lestrade follow after him, watching as he stops to sniff at the banister at the top of the staircase and peers up at the ceiling. He actually looks, in a bemused kind of way, as if the house is hiding a secret and will not let it go until Sherlock insults it enough to get it angry and cause it to slip up. It is only when Sherlock reaches the front door that he straightens up and looks back to Lestrade, a curious glint in his eye that John rarely ever sees except when something has well and truly confused him.

"I need to look around the gardens, something's missing." Sherlock says, and he is striding out the front door before Lestrade has time to answer. John and Sherlock walk down the gravel driveway and over to the gate, where Sherlock bends over and starts to examine the ground. He's muttering to himself about footprints now, bent over double and looking at the grass.

"Found anything yet?" John ventures, looking over Sherlock's shoulder, which is something which he doesn't usually have the opportunity to do given that Sherlock is so tall. He rather enjoys it.

"Something very strange is going on here,' Sherlock replies, his voice muffled,' there are signs of other people all over the place, footprints, fingerprints, sweet wrappers that have been tossed aside, but there's something that just doesn't add up."

"Any idea what that is?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

John sighs and starts to jog as Sherlock straightens up and strides across the grass, making a beeline for the other side of the house. As they walk John starts to notice more statues, some broken and crumbling and others in what looks to be perfect condition. The creepiest by far are the ones of little children, all smiling happily but all with blank stone eyes. John has never really been bothered by garden statues before, but he shivers nonetheless. There are still police officers hanging around but there are significantly less at the back of the house. In fact, the only people around the back of the house don't even look as if they are police. There are three of them and they aren't wearing any uniforms. They seem quite agitated, glancing around nervously and sticking close to each other. When one of them, a girl with long orange hair and a miniskirt that is far too short to be appropriate for the current weather, notices him staring and gives a friendly wave. He waves back and watches as her eyes inevitably clamp onto Sherlock, and he struggles not to sigh.

Sherlock has stopped again, standing at the feet of a human sized statue.

"There are footsteps here,' Sherlock says suddenly, and John starts,' there are footsteps right here, difficult to find because the grass has almost grown over them, but they're here. They lead right up to the statue, then turn around. But they don't move from there. Somebody has walked up to this statue, turned around, and then vanished."

"That's impossible." John says, because it is. He has a feeling that Sherlock thinks otherwise, however.

"I haven't overlooked anything. They were here, then they were not." Sherlock straightens and begins to peer closely at the statue. John gazes at it and shivers, feeling the cold tear down his spine. This statue isn't as creepy as the small children from the front of the house, but its wings are tucked behind its back and its face is cupped in its hands. A weeping angel. Fitting, considering how dreary the estate looks, overgrown with untamed weeds and vines.

After a few moments Sherlock tires of looking at it and walks away, beckoning for John to join him. They walk back to the front of the house, and before they go John takes one last look at the non-police officers, and notices that one of them is staring intently at the statue, and the other two are watching him leave.

**End Chapter One**


	2. Dangerous Finds

**AN /: It appears that I'm multitasking now. That and I can't seem to keep my formatting consistent between stories. Oh well. I'll get there one day. Hope you enjoy the second chapter. I aim to scare.**

O.o.O.o.O

_**The Angel, The Detective, And The Phone Box**_

_**Ch 2. Dangerous Finds**_

It is early evening two days later when Sherlock mentions the missing persons murder case again.

"I have to go back." He says decisively, just as John sits down with a steaming hot cup of tea.

"Why?" John asks, and Sherlock's reply is to slam down the lid of his laptop and dart off the couch, grabbing his coat and scarf.

"Are you coming?" he calls from halfway down the stairs, and John mutters a few exasperated words as he grabs his jacket and heads for the stairs. Less than a minute later they're sitting in a cab on its way to the crime scene, Sherlock glued to his phone and John staring out the window.

"You're lucky I don't have to be at work tomorrow,' John says, and Sherlock makes a strange noncommittal noise in the back of his throat as way of reply. John sighs to himself and watches the traffic fly past, wondering what Sherlock could possibly want so badly that he has to venture back to the old abandoned house right this very minute.

The sun is beginning to set as they near the house, and the cab pulls up right next to the gate. John is left once again to pay the driver as Sherlock darts out and pushes the gate open, striding into the old estate with a fierce determination. The place is completely deserted, no police in sight, and in the fading light the house looks just like the old spooky one that would frequently appear in old horror movies. John suppresses the shiver and keeps walking, jogging beside Sherlock as they approach the front door. Out of the corner of his eye John spots a small blue police box sitting under a few trees in the far corner of the garden, and he swears he hadn't seen it there the last time. He isn't left any time to ponder it, however, because the door is unlocked and Sherlock is already striding inside.

"Sherlock, what are we doing here?" John hisses through his teeth, because something inside his mind is telling him to be quiet and he feels a compulsion to obey it.

"There's something I've missed,' Sherlock replies,' something in this house. These disappearances don't make any sense, and I'm sure there's an answer. All the evidence so far would have me believe that the victims have disappeared without a trace, vanished into thin air, but something isn't right, something doesn't add up."

"Any idea what that is?" John presses.

"Everything points to the disappearances being unexpected. There are glass shards and splinters where photo frames have been dropped, torches that the victims had been using are abandoned, lying on the ground or under a dresser." Sherlock says, and the tone of his voice suggests that he is agitated. Sherlock keeps walking, examining the walls and bits of furniture as he moves from one room to another and eventually they wind up in the kitchen. The sun has almost set and there are only thin threads of light trickling through the window. Sherlock moves to open the door that leads to the cellar, and as he throws it open he freezes, and John lets out a surprised yelp.

Because standing behind the door, her arm outstretched to turn the handle herself, is the red headed girl from yesterday.

She shrieks in surprise and stumbles backwards, her fingers scrabbling along the wall for support. There is a muffled shout from below and suddenly a young man with light brown hair appears around the corner, followed by another man of about the same age who is for some reason wearing a tweed jacket and a red bowtie.

"Amy, are you alright?" gasps the man with brown hair as he leaps towards the red head, grabbing her arm and flicking his gaze quickly between her and Sherlock. The man in the tweed jacket takes a step forwards and glances between Sherlock and John, studying them with a keen gaze.

"Who are you?" he asks, locking eyes with Sherlock, who stares right back.

"I'm John,' John says, extending a hand, because he can almost hear Sherlock's brain ticking and he doesn't look like he's going to answer any time soon,' and this is Sherlock."

The red haired girl and the brown haired boy look at each other quickly, and the man in the tweed jacket keeps staring at Sherlock. Then John notices that the brown haired boy is looking back down the staircase with a determined yet frantic look, and suddenly a chill shoots down his spine.

"Sherlock. As in Sherlock Holmes?" the red headed girl asks, and John notes that she has a Scottish accent, unlike her friends.

"Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you." Sherlock says, and reaches out to shake the man in the tweed jacket's hand. The man takes it warily, his eyes darting between Sherlock and John, but he takes Sherlock's hand nonetheless.

"I'm the Doctor,' the man in the tweed jacket says,' and this is Rory and-"

"And I'm Amy,' the red headed girl says, sticking her hand out towards Sherlock as she eyes him up. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and shakes her hand, and John notices that the man behind her, Rory, is looking rather jealous as he continues to stare down the staircase.

"Well, it was nice meeting you all but I really have some work to get to,' Sherlock says, stepping past the Doctor and Amy and making his way down the stairs. The Doctor begins to look worried though, and calls out after him.

"Why do you want to go down there,' he says hurriedly,' there's nothing particularly interesting, just some rats and broken stone."

"Considering you don't want me to go down there then I take it that there _is_ something interesting, so I think I'll go down anyway." Sherlock says, and before anyone can stop him he bounds off down the stairs. John smiles apologetically at the Doctor and rushes down after Sherlock, taking the steps two at a time and emerging into quite an ordinary looking store room. The walls are damp and any food that has once been held is now long gone. The shelves are rotting and falling apart, and really the only unusual thing down here is the statue of an angel that is illuminated by the light of Sherlock's torch.

"Hold this,' Sherlock says as he shoves the torch into Johns hand and then turns to examine a few of the shelves. John glances down to check his watch, and then as he looks back up he notices something is off. Before, the angel had had its face cupped in its hands. Now, it seems to be peering through its fingers. He is about to rub his eyes when he hears a shout from the stairwell, and turns to see the Doctor rush down the stairs, followed by Rory.

"Don't look away from the statue,' the Doctor shouts,' even for a second, even just a blink, look away from it and you die."

John is sure that he is being overly dramatic, but as he hears Sherlock shout in surprise he turns to find that the angel has one of its arms outstretched. It definitely didn't have an arm outstretched before.

"Whatever you do, don't look away,' the Doctor says in a low voice as Sherlock straightens himself and looks down at the angel. He is just taller than it, tall enough to just see the top of its head.

"Also, really, honestly, whatever you do, _don't look into its eyes_." The Doctor says again as Sherlock moves to gaze at its face, and the sincerity in his voice is enough to convince John to move his gaze to the statue's feet.

"Superstitious nonsense,' Sherlock mutters dismissively, but John notes that Sherlock isn't looking at its face.

"Why shouldn't we look at its face?" John asks, turning to the Doctor, who is still staring intently at the statue.

"You may find this difficult to believe,' he starts,' but that isn't a statue."

"If it's not a statue then what on earth is it?" John asks, the humour in his voice hiding a sly note of fear.

"It's an alien." Rory says matter-of-factly, and Sherlock snorts in disbelief.

"It _is_ an alien,' the Doctor says, insists,' it's called a weeping angel. Whenever someone is looking at it, it quantum locks and turns itself to stone. That's why it covers its eyes, so it can't look at another of its kind accidentally. If you look away and let it move it sends you to another time, and then feeds off the energy left by what you could have ever been and done. It feeds off your potential. It's technically the only psychopath in the universe to kill you nicely... except if it snaps your neck."

"The man upstairs..." Sherlock says quietly, and the realisation hits John like a blow to the stomach. The victim was killed by this... this thing, this weeping angel. It had snapped his neck when he wasn't looking. Difficult to believe, but what was it that Sherlock kept saying about whatever remains being the truth no matter how unlikely?

"Have you taken any pictures of this statue, any of the statues?" the Doctor asks, seeming slightly less panicked.

"No, none." John replies.

"Good, because that's how they breed." Rory says, and John decides not to press the matter any further.

Right now this whole evening is starting to seem like a horror movie, complete with haunted house, innocent victims and horrible monsters. Every nerve, every fibre of Johns being is now screaming at him to run, and John notes that his hand is completely still, even though it had been trembling the whole cab ride over.

"John, I think it's time we left, don't you agree?" Sherlock says, and John nods in agreement.

"Rory, head up to wait with Amy,' the Doctor says,' John, Sherlock, you go with him. I'll follow behind and make sure this one doesn't sneak up on us.

John goes on ahead of Sherlock, and he can hear Rory humming to himself a few paces ahead. They reach the cellar door, which is closed, and Amy is standing with her back against the wall.

"What do we do now, Doctor?" she calls out, not taking her eyes off the door for a second.

"We need to get Mr Holmes and Mr Watson out of here as quickly as we can, then we can go back to the search.' The Doctor says as he brings up the rear, walking backwards and running a hand over the wall to feel his way up.

"What search?" Sherlock asks, a note of brightness in his voice.

"That's not really important,' the Doctor starts, but Rory cuts him off.

"But if he's really Sherlock Holmes, then he can help us!" Rory says, and John watches as Sherlock straightens, his nostrils flaring indignantly.

"He can't be Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor says.

"Maybe he is,' Amy says enthusiastically,' maybe the crack chewed up the books and spat them out as a real person."

By now John feels a little confused and a little insulted. Everyone is focusing on Sherlock, as usual, but all this talk of not being real is a bit insulting. He knows he is real... or is at least pretty sure, and he is not in the right mood to have an identity crisis right now.

"I wouldn't be the one lecturing about false appearances, Doctor,' Sherlock says scathingly,' seeing as you aren't even human, and don't have the decency to tell me your real name."

The Doctor stops and turns to face Sherlock, his face blank. Rory must be able to sense that the Doctor is preoccupied now, because he turns to face the staircase, taking guard duty into his own hands.

"How did you know that, you can't have known that." The Doctor says, and it seems more like a statement than a question.

"It's obvious,' Sherlock says, a smug grin on his face,' your knowledge about these... 'creatures' is the biggest hint, as you said yourself that they weren't statues, and are in fact aliens. Then there's your odd dress, which can be chalked down to either eccentricity or the inability to understand dress culture, more likely the latter given the current evidence. There's also the fact that there is a clearly alien device sticking out of your back pocket. And besides, who call their child 'Doctor'? It's obviously a name you took yourself."

The Doctor clutches at the back pocket of his trousers, his frown disappearing completely, replaced with a wide smile.

"That was absolutely magnificent,' he says, clapping his hands together excitedly,' you really must be Sherlock Holmes, even though that's impossible. Oh, that was just brilliant! What else can you work out, what else can you deduce?"

Sherlock's own smug grin stretches even wider, his ego dangerously boosted by the Doctor's praise. John hopes that the Doctor keeps the praise to a minimum, or Sherlock is going to be unbearable for the rest of the week.

"Doctor, tell him about the crystal!" Amy prompts, looking at Sherlock, delight lighting her face as if Christmas has come three months early.

"Oh, right, the crystal!" the Doctor shouts, clapping his hands together again. "We're looking for a crystal, small, black, about the size of an apple, contains enough energy to destroy the planet. We know that the angels haven't gotten it yet, but if they do find it they'll feed off it and be restored to their full power and go on a bit of a killing frenzy."

"Well,' John starts,' we'd better help you find that-" and he is cut off as the door swings open, revealing an angel that is staring straight at them, its arms outstretched.

"Don't look at its face!" the Doctor shouts, and immediately John darts his gaze down to the stone folds of its dress.

"I think they're onto us." Amy says, gazing at the angel's feet and tapping her fingers against the wall.

"That doesn't matter,' the doctor replies,' there are five of us now, and so as long as we all hold hands and walk together, and as long as nobody blinks, we should be okay."

"Who says we'll help?' Sherlock says suddenly, and John fights the urge to elbow the taller man in the stomach.

"Of course we'll help." John says, and the Doctor seems relieved at his assurance.

"Alright then,' Amy says as she makes a grab for Sherlock and Rory's hands,' let's stick together and get moving."

**End Chapter Two**


	3. The Search

**AN /: Yeah, this is definitely going to be a four or five chapter thing. A big thank you to everyone who reviewed, your opinions are really appreciated and can only make this story better.**

**Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock', 'Doctor Who', and all characters within belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I'm just taking them for a joyride, I make no profit from this.

O.o.O.o.O

_**The Angel, The Detective, And The Phone Box**_

_**Ch 3. The Search**_

It is a strange juxtaposition between a children's game and a life or death situation. To hold hands and weave past evil statues, it makes John feel as if he is five and out exploring with his friends. However, the fear that he would have felt then would have been more the thrill at being free to explore. The fear he feels now is completely real, caused by the very real threat of death. He doesn't know what it is about the Doctor that makes him believe what he says about the statues, but the way they move when no-one looks and the way the Doctor talks with such sincerity compels him to listen and to believe.

These statues definitely make John's top five list of creepy things, coming in at two, just underneath a reoccurring nightmare about being sucked into an abyss of fire and death. The fact that these alien living statues only move when they cannot be seen makes them scary, the anxiety of not being able to take your eyes off them for a second is absolutely terrifying. It is a fear totally different to the fear for his life he held in the war. At least then he was being killed by a human enemy.

The sun has almost set, throwing long shadows about the kitchen, and John reaches for Sherlock and the Doctor to form the front of their human pentagon as they walk slowly around the weeping angel with its outstretched arm. Under any normal circumstances John would feel utterly ridiculous at having to grab Sherlock's hand, considering he is constantly denying that they are a couple, but of course this isn't an ordinary circumstance and it's not like anyone really cares at the moment. Sherlock' hand is gloved and cold, but it is familiar and provides a little relief. John is still holding the torch in his other hand, and can feel the Doctor tugging at his wrist.

"Give me the torch,' the Doctor urges, but Sherlock tugs on Johns hand and buts in.

"One torch won't do us much good with the current lack of light,' Sherlock says in a quiet voice,' we need to find another torch, or at least some candles. I think I saw one in the hallway, so if I can just go find that..."

Sherlock tries to separate himself from the pentagon but John keeps a firm grasp on his hand and pulls him back. He winds up staring at Sherlock, a battle of wills that John does not intend to lose.

"Don't go without us,' John says, staring Sherlock down with as much authority as he can muster,' you don't know how many more stat- angels are out there. Besides, I don't think Lestrade would be happy if I have to tell him that you've been sent to another time by an inanimate object."

"There's a Lestrade here too?" Rory asks, turning to look at John in surprise.

"Rory!" Amy shouts, and John has to crane his neck to turn his head at almost one hundred and eighty degrees to see that in the time it has taken Rory to stare at him, the angle has turned around and taken three steps towards them. It is so close now that if they don't watch it it could reach out and grab Amy's jacket.

"This thing is fast!" Rory exclaims, turning his head back around and staring intently at the statue again, as if he is daring it to harm her.

"Rory, please, whatever you do, don't take your eyes off it." The Doctor implores, and Rory looks embarrassed, but even more determined than before.

"Right then, let's keep moving, shall we?" Amy says, taking a few steps towards the door, and this prompts everyone to begin to move. They make it out through the doorway, John in front with the torch and Rory and Amy bringing up the rear, and emerge into a hallway that is still just light enough to see in without the torch. Sherlock ducks down towards a dresser that is pressed up against the wall, flattening himself against the floor and sticking his hand underneath the sagging wood. He feels around, pulling away holding a rather large black torch. He gives the switch a flick and sends a beam of light spilling down the long hallway, illuminating the moth-eaten carpet and faded pictures that hang from the walls.

"Pass it here,' Amy says,' so we can watch from both ends."

"Actually, considering how tall I am it would be more efficient for me to hold the torch,' Sherlock says,' I'll be able to illuminate a far greater proportion of the room."

"But John already has a torch,' Amy argues,' you can't have both torches up front."

"Fine,' Sherlock says tersely,' John, hand your torch to Rory."

John does as he is told and then grips tightly at the Doctor's wrist.

"Now, forgive me if I'm wrong,' Sherlock says,' but isn't there a rather large flaw in this plan of yours, Doctor? Why on earth would you search an old abandoned house full of deadly statues at night, when you are less likely to be able to keep your eyes on them?"

"Ah, well, about that,' the Doctor says apologetically,' see, that's actually my fault. The crystal that we're looking for triggers if it's touched by sunlight. I had planned to come here during the day and looking for it, but the problem seems to be that the entire house is rigged up to have sunlight pouring in through every window. I wouldn't have been able to find the crystal and take it away at the same time so I just came here to look for it and figure that part out later. Well... that and I got the time mixed up. I was aiming for 5am, not 5pm."

John hears Amy groan from behind him, and he's sure he just heard Rory slap his forehead. He has to agree with them though, the Doctor's plan does seem a little... vague.

"So you're telling me that you've put us all in mortal danger because you got the time wrong? You have a time machine for crying out loud!" Rory shouts, and John isn't sure whether he heard that last part right.

"You have a time machine?" He repeats, and sees the Doctor wince.

"I wasn't going to tell you that bit..." The Doctor says meekly.

"A proper, working time machine? Really?" Sherlock asks, and his face lights up like a Christmas tree.

"If we get out of this house alive I'll be happy to give you a tour, but right now we have slightly bigger things to worry about." The Doctor says, and he reaches forwards to open the door in front of them, revealing two more angels.

Amy shrieks and Rory lets out a shout, and John feels his blood freeze in his veins. These angels look no different to the last two they have seen, and there is a possibility that they are the exact same ones, who have simply circled the house and come back to haunt them. The angel on the right is looking straight ahead, its arms by its side, but the angel on the right has both arms outstretched, and its mouth is curled into the beginning of a sneer. The Doctor approaches with caution, moving past one of the angels to peer into the room beyond.

"Okay, is everybody calm?" he asks, his gaze around the corner, and John finds himself nodding despite the fact that every nerve in his body feels like it is frayed beyond repair.

"Good, that's good,' the Doctor says quietly,' because I think there are more in this room."

"You have got to be kidding me!" Amy groans, and the Doctor reaches over to pat her shoulder reassuringly.

"It could be worse,' he says kindly,' remember last time? Last time was a lot worse. This is better than last time."

Amy seems reassured by this and a look of determination reappears on her face. The smiles reassuringly and then pulls on John and Rory's hands, leading them like small children into the room that John now recognises as the main hall. The sun has set now and the hall looks positively creepy by torchlight, completely empty and falling apart around them. The ceiling and the far ends of the room are shrouded in darkness and the wind has picked up outside, howling and buffeting the sides of the house.

Sherlock holds the torch up as high as he can, illuminating almost one hundred and eighty degrees around him, and even though Rory is doing the same he is not as tall as Sherlock and there are just a few gaps in the circle of light.

"Reminds me of one time in a library..." the Doctor mutters. Amy looks at him with curiosity but the Doctor doesn't elaborate.

Suddenly John hears Sherlock gasp, and just for a second the drops as Sherlock goes to clap his hands together.

"Get the light back up!" Rory shouts just as Sherlock realises his mistake, and now there is another angel a few steps in front of them. John has no idea where this one has come from, but it is truly terrifying to see. The serene, expressionless face of the other angels isn't present on this one. This one is snarling, its mouth gaping open and its stone fangs bared. Its fingers are clawed, reaching out towards them, its shoulders are hunched, and its wings look leathery, as if someone has plucked the feathers off. It is enough to even send a shiver down Sherlock's spine, and John feels him shudder, hears the rustling of his long coat.

"I know where the crystal you were searching for is,' Sherlock says quietly, his voice shaking just slightly, and he is stretching his hand into the air as high as he can and staring intently at the statue,' the room with the body."

"Why would it be there?" John asks, because he was only in there yesterday and he didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, but Sherlock is already pulling him up the stairs before anyone can tell him to wait. They have broken their pentagon and have formed more of a line, Sherlock at the front followed by John and the Doctor, followed by Amy, with Rory shining the torch down the stairs to cover their exit. Sherlock barges through the door and John notes that the police have taken the body.

"I've already checked this room,' the Doctor says, looking around,' there was nothing, no crystal and nothing out of the ordinary. What on earth would I have missed?"

"This is the only room with a mirror. A whole entire house, and this is the only mirror." Sherlock says quietly, and John notices for the first time that there is indeed a mirror on the left wall. It is old, with some sections fading away to show the metal underneath, but it is big, and still clear enough to give John a very good view of their odd little group.

"The angels can't look at themselves,' Sherlock says quietly.

"So the best place to hide something that they need is behind a mirror,' John finishes as it all clicks into place.

"That's brilliant." Rory says, and Sherlock regains his smug grin.

"Right,' the Doctor says, taking charge,' Rory, close the door but keep watching it. Amy, watch the window. Don't want the angels sneaking up on us. Somehow."

John watches as Sherlock grabs one end of the mirror and pulls it from the wall, hearing the Doctor shout in disapproval as it crashes to the floor and breaks into thousands of pieces. Where the mirror had been there is a small white switch, and as Sherlock flips it down the wall in front of him slides away to reveal a gaping hole in the wall that leads to what is probably another, secret room. The only problem is that there is no light beyond the wall.

"Found it." Sherlock says more to himself than to anyone in particular, sticking his head into the darkness.

"Hey, don't do that,' the Doctor says, grabbing Sherlock by the collar and pulling him back,' you don't know what's in there."

"What, and you do?" Sherlock retorts, and John can see that he is beginning to bristle angrily, drawing himself up to full height and towering above the Doctor's head.

"This is ridiculous,' Amy exclaims,' anyone else would be beside themselves if they met Sherlock Holmes, but all you two are doing is trying to dominate each other! The two greatest minds of the universe and you can't even get along for ten minutes!"

"She's right,' the Doctor says in exasperation,' I never argued with Shakespeare this much!"

"You've met Shakespeare?" John and Amy reply simultaneously.

"Yes, well,' the Doctor scratches the back of his head bashfully,' it was ages ago, nothing special, although he did flirt with me a bit, and I did save him from some witches, but that's not the point and I have to take a look at this corridor... or room, whatever's in there."

"I'll go with you,' Sherlock says decisively,' John, stay with these two. I'll take this torch, but you two should be alright with just the one."

"Fine,' John replies,' but just don't get yourself killed, and don't do anything stupid."

"You should have more faith in me John,' Sherlock says, smiling sincerely before ducking into the dark space in front of him, causing the Doctor to shout and dive in after him.

"I have faith in you, Sherlock,' John sighs to himself,' it's just your common sense that I have problems with."

**End Chapter Three**


	4. Disconcerting

**AN /: Once again, huge thankyou's to those who favourited, put this story on alert, or gave a review. It all helps, and I am so very, very thankful. Also, while this chapter is entirely from John's POV I promise the next chapter will be from Sherlock's, because I just know that some of you are itching to see how two of the smartest men alive (in this story, anyway) get along together. Anyways, thanks for reading, and here we go!**

O.o.O.o.O

_**The Angel, The Detective, And The Phone Box**_

_**Ch 4. Disconcerting**_

The wind is still howling outside the house, rattling the window and making the walls creak. John notes to himself as he walks by the same stretch of wall that, maybe if they get rid of the killer statues somehow, this house would make an amazing tourist attraction as a haunted house.

At the moment John is pacing opposite the hole that Sherlock and the Doctor disappeared through, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed. He is wearing his black jacket, a knitted jumper, a long sleeved shirt _and_ a singlet and he _still_ feels cold.

Behind him Amy is leaning next to the window, her arms crossed over her chest as she clutches her large red jumper close to her body, and she is absently staring out the window, occasionally making small sounds from the back of her throat. Rory is sitting against the wall opposite in a small spot that he has cleared of glass shards, staring at his feet rather than the door. He has balanced the torch in the middle of the room and the light only illuminates him from the chin up, giving the impression that he has somehow misplaced his body. There is an awkward silence between the three of them as they wait for Sherlock and the Doctor to return, and a small, not very sensible part of John's brain is afraid that if he says anything the angels will hear him and come get him. Of course, the angels will hear him, but it's not like they could get at him if he can see them and the torch is working perfectly.

"What's it like,' Amy says suddenly,' living with Sherlock Holmes?"

John stops pacing and turns to face her, taking in her long red hair and big round eyes. She looks too young to be getting into this sort of danger, but there is a glint in her eyes that hints of experience beyond her years.

"It's amazing,' John says after a while, completely honestly,' it's amazing, it's frustrating, and it's dangerous. But I'm never bored."

"What's 221b like?" Amy asks, sounding enthused. She is looking at him with stars in her eyes, as if John is telling her about some famous celebrity. He wonders why she is so keen to know all about him and his life, but the only explanation is that she is either an avid follower of his blog or Sherlock's website.

"It's just an apartment,' he replies, shrugging,' fairly small, the heating doesn't work properly, and every now and then I find body parts in the fridge or in jars, so you have to watch what you pick up. It's like you're constantly on alert."

Amy makes a face, scrunching her nose up in disgust. "Body parts in the fridge? Really?"

"Really really,' John says, and this time he laughs,' most of the time it's just small things like fingers or bits of organs, but on one occasion there was actually a severed head."

"No way."

"Yeah."

"Seriously, a severed head?"

"A real, severed, human head."

"That's disgusting!"

"It was an experiment."

"That's so weird,' Amy laughs, moving her hands to her pockets and leaning a foot up against the wall.

"I suppose it is,' John says,' but I'm used to it now, really, so it doesn't bother me much unless it's all over the kitchen table and there's nowhere to eat."

When John falls silent Amy looks down at her feet again, and with no more questions the room lapses into a quietness that is both eerie and peaceful. And then, without warning, a flash of light bursts into the room, and a few seconds later there is a soft pattering noise against the roof.

"Brilliant, just brilliant..." Rory mutters, running a hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck viciously.

"How cliché is this,' Amy says, a hint of laughter in her voice,' we're in a haunted house, at night, during at thunderstorm."

"What's so cliché about alien statues?" Rory asks, and he has to shout over the rain as it begins to pound harder against the walls.

Amy tries to say something but her voice is drowned out by a booming clap of thunder. The walls of the house shake, as if it has gained a life of its own. John's shoulder is beginning to ache now and he stops pacing to clear a space on the floor beside Rory, sweeping the glass away with his foot. Rory looks awkward but makes no attempt to move away, and then another clap of thunder makes the walls shake violently and causes Amy to give up her spot by the window and slide down next to Rory. They clasp hands and Amy leans her head into Rory's shoulder, and John remembers the sensation of having to sit next to couples on the bus to school. Sweet to watch, but awkward to be around.

They sit in silence, no sign from either the Doctor or Sherlock, and eventually after what feels like hours the rain eases up to a pattering, rather than a pummelling. And then they hear it.

It is like someone has taped fingers screeching down a blackboard, shrieking, and a jackhammer and blended it into one sound, then turned it up to eleven. The noise sends shivers down John's spine and makes him wish dearly that he is curled up back in 221b in his armchair with a book and a steaming mug of sweet tea. By reflex John reaches down to where his gun is tucked into the back of his belt, and even though he is not sure how much use it will be against stone statues it does make him feel a little better.

"What the hell is that?" Rory exclaims in alarm. John looks across at the pair and sees that Amy has gone pale, all the blood drained from her face. Without a word she gets up and walks over to the window, looking outside and shivering viciously.

"They're laughing..." Amy says in a whisper that John has to struggle to hear.

"That's _laughter _?" Rory says, incredulous. Amy just nods, still staring out the window.

John gets up and walks over to Amy, standing beside her as she stares out through the rain-streaked glass. The grounds outside are black, devoid of light and smothered by the shadows. A streak of lightening rips through the sky above, long enough to cast light on the grounds below, and for a fleeting second John can see them. The angels are outside on the grass, four of them, all looking up with blank faces. It is unsettling and eerie, and it makes John shudder.

If there is one thing that John has learnt as a doctor, it is that a brave face is everything. Even when someone is on the verge of dying, a brave face can cause them to hold on for just that little bit longer, enough time to save their life. John has seen fear, he knows what it looks like and knows that it is etched all over both Rory and Amy's faces. And so he puts on a brave face, smiles just a bit, and puts a hand on Amy's shoulder. The lightning flashes again, and John notices that now there are only three.

"We're safe,' he reassures her,' as long as we have the torch we'll be fine. Sherlock and the doctor will get back and it'll all be fine." He is in full doctor mode now, he can't help it. Reassurance is the key in the current situation if they are all to survive, and not to go mad by the morning.

He hears Rory move but doesn't see him until the other man slips his arms around Amy's waist, moving his hands to cover hers where she holds them clenched against the window frame. Rory looks awkward about such a display of affection, as if he doesn't do it often, but Amy doesn't seem to mind. John spots the wedding bands on their fingers and has the sudden urge to keep them alive, no matter what the cost, because no young couple should have to worry about anything more than a mortgage.

They stay in front of the window a little longer, long enough to watch two more angels disappear after flashes of lightening and long enough to hear the laughter again. He wonders if Sherlock can hear it, and considers going to see if he can help with anything, but then discards the idea as the Doctor seemed to know what he was doing. Besides, he would probably just get in the way.

There is another clap of thunder, another bolt of lightning, and suddenly there are no more angels outside.

And then the room is thrown into darkness as the torch flickers.

"That can't be good,' John says, dashing over to the torch and grabbing it in one hand as it flickers again. He doesn't want to risk fiddling with the batteries, and is at a bit of a loss at what to do because the light is getting weaker and flickering more and more.

"Doctor!" Amy shouts at the top of her lungs while she stares worriedly at John, her fingers like a vice around Rory's hand.

The torch goes out for two whole seconds this time, flickering back on weakly. There is another flash of lightening and a rumbling clap of thunder, and in that instant it is as if John is living seven horror movies all at once.

"_Sherlock _!" John shouts, and his heart is starting to race, thumping against his ribs. There is another ungodly wail that makes both Rory and John jump in fright, and John notices that the doorknob is turning ever so slowly.

He has almost never been this scared in his life. Not in Afghanistan, not when Sarah was almost impaled with a crossbow by that Chinese smuggling syndicate, not when he had had enough explosives to set off a house strapped to his chest and set to blow at the press of a button. He had been scared all those times, but they are nothing compared to this. This is a fear that curls through his stomach, wraps around his heart and his lungs and proceeds to squeeze like there is no tomorrow. It is a fear he has only felt fleetingly, only twice; the first when he was a small child, unable to breathe as he choked at a family Christmas dinner, and the second that terrifying second when a little red sniper dot had appeared in the centre of Sherlock's forehead.

With one hand he points the dying torch at the door that is slowly, torturously opening, and with the other he reaches around and pulls out his gun. It is cool and reassuring in his hands, despite the fact that it probably won't help him look after himself much. Behind him, Amy and Rory are standing together, hand in hand. He feels so sorry for them.

With an unnaturally steady hand, John raises his gun to the door. The handle stops turning, the door swings forwards.

And the room goes dark.

**End Chapter Four**


	5. A Matter Of Pride

**AN /: This chapter may receive divided opinions. I don't particularly like it, to be honest, it's too long and everyone seems a little OOC. But I'll see what you guys think. Happy reading.**

O.o.O.o.O

_**The Angel, The Detective, And The Phone Box**_

_**Ch 5. A Matter Of Pride**_

As Sherlock walks through the hole in the wall there is a rippling sensation around his body, as if he has just dived into a swimming pool. He turns to watch as the air around the Doctor shakes and wobbles as he walks forwards. Sherlock reaches back to put a hand back though the hole and finds that his gloved fingers contact something solid.

"I wasn't expecting that,' the Doctor says, and he reaches out very slowly to poke at the invisible wall with his finger. The wall looks almost like clear jelly, and while it wobbles furiously it stays solid. The Doctor reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the strange, metallic rod like object. He steps back and points the rod at the wall, pressing buttons that make loud clicking sounds and causing a green light to flash at the top end. The most Sherlock can divine from the device is that it is capable of making some very strange noises, and that the Doctor seems to be able to understand every single beep and whirr.

"Sonic screwdriver,' the Doctor says when he catches Sherlock looking,' it's okay, I wouldn't expect you to know what it was, it's not even from this planet so-"

"We're behind some sort of soundproof force field, aren't we?" Sherlock says, cutting the Doctor off before he can even approach the smug stage.

"Well... yes, we are."

"That explains why neither John nor your friends seem to be able to hear or see us."

The Doctor turns to stare at Sherlock, and Sherlock looks down and holds his gaze. For what seems like a long time, neither speak.

"You're not a robot, are you?" The Doctor asks, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"No I am not." Sherlock says, and he promptly turns his back to the Doctor with a dramatic swish of his coat and proceeds to examine the room in front of him.

It is a bit like he is looking at the cockpit of a plane, except that there are strange capsules lining both of the other two walls and a hell of a lot more strange buttons, all the same colour, all squares and rectangles, all set into a panel on the far wall. A dim red light is cast from round globes on the ceiling. There is a foreign script engraved onto every button on the panel, presumably labelling them. He reaches out and touches a few, his gloved fingers picking up a thin layer of dust. Contrary to what those silly American extraterrestrial movies say or what Murphy's Law tends to dictate, nothing lights up, and no death traps appear. The room remains deathly still. Sherlock bends down to place the torch on the ground, and then walks to the centre of the small room.

_Room of alien origin,_ he thinks to himself,_ too advanced for humanity, even the brighter ones, and the layer of dust says abandoned or forgotten. Main power source must be electricity, connected to the main house, or the 'crystal' we are searching for taking into account the amount of power it is meant to store. Alien inhabitants must have either died or moved out. Room used as some sort of surveillance centre._ Sherlock grins. Mycroft would be so very jealous.

Sherlock begins to dart about the room, checking under the control panel, behind the capsules, running his fingers over every corner and laying flat on the metal floor to examine a small green stain. He even climbs atop one of the pods to inspect a little black box attached to the ceiling just above the door.

_Containment facility as well as surveillance centre,_ Sherlock muses, _capsules appear to have neurological wires attached to top of inner walls. Conclusion. Alien race, one close to earth presumably, came here to study the angels, hoping to use the crystal to keep them fed and placated. Mission was a failure, judging by abandoned state, angels probably got restless and killed them for fun._

"That was brilliant,' the Doctor says behind Sherlock,' absolutely magnificent."

It is then that Sherlock realises that he has been talking out loud. While talking to himself is nothing new, he usually realises when he is doing it. Maybe always having to explain things to John is starting to become a subconscious part of his deductions.

"Naturally,' Sherlock says, because he is not sure what else to do. The Doctor keeps watching him like an experiment, and it is making him just a tad uncomfortable.

The Doctor walks over to the control panel and points his screwdriver at the middle. He presses a button and suddenly the whole thing springs to life, one of the screens flickering brightly and every button lit from underneath with a soft white light.

"This surveillance unit was run by a great little race, the Enlodians,' he says as he fiddles around with the buttons, pressing a few and bringing up a file to load on the far right screen,' really clever and ingenious, loved to learn-"

"Were they reptilian, by any chance?" Sherlock asks, cutting the Doctor off.

"Yes, they were. How did you..."

"There are a few scales discarded under the control panel. The angels don't look particularly serpentine to me."

A wide smile breaks over the Doctor's face, and for a fleeting second he recognises it as the same smile that he gives to John when he says something clever.

"Anyway,' the Doctor begins again as he returns his attention to the screen,' a great bunch, but they bit off more than they could chew when they decided to have a look at the angels. This was the closest planet that had them, and so they came here with a crystal absolutely packed with energy, enough to get them here and back and keep the angels at bay to boot. I heard about the expedition a long while back, from someone I met in a bar once actually, said the poor souls assigned to the task had never come back and that the expedition was shushed up by the government."

"No great difference in political tactics between planets then,' Sherlock mutters to himself.

"And so, whatever happened to them here was probably recorded, in this last video log." The Doctor says quietly. He leans forward a bit and Sherlock moves over to the control panel, standing next to the Doctor. There is silence as the screen blinks off and back on then plays footage of three rather short aliens milling about in the control room. They look a bit like a cross between humans and snakes. Their entire bodies are covered in scales, the colour indistinguishable because of the grey footage, although if Sherlock has to guess he would say a rather vivid blur. Their limbs are rather spindly and their faces are rather small, with forked tongues that occasionally slip past their flat lips.

There is a flurry of movement as the scene fades quickly to black and then lights up again, and suddenly there is an angel sitting up in the pod. The aliens seem terrified, they are scurrying back and forth, assaulting the panel's keys at lightning speed with tapered fingers. The screen goes dark for three seconds and then when the picture comes back one of the aliens is lying on the floor, neck on a very unnatural angle, the angel standing over him with claws outstretched. The other two are still frantically tapping keys on the panel, although one breaks off and stands still, raising his hands to the roof.

"She's praying." The Doctor says quietly, and the screen goes black once again. Sherlock knows what is going to happen next, although it wasn't a very difficult logical leap. The screen flickers to life once again and this time all three are dead on the floor, their long necks snapped. The angel stands at the keyboard, its hands by its side and its back facing the camera.

"They shouldn't have tried to contain it,' the Doctor says sadly, reaching up to touch the screen as it goes black one last time. However, as the screen lights up this time, revealing the angel peering over its shoulder, the Doctor freezes.

"Image of an angel..." He mutters to himself, and then shouts in alarm and darts over to the camera, climbing atop the capsule and fumbling with his Sonic Screwdriver in an attempt to wrench it out of his pocket. "Sherlock,' he says, pleadingly, imploringly,' I need to shut the camera down, don't look away from the screen. Keep watching the angel but don't look at its eyes!"

"Why on earth would I need to do that,' Sherlock scoffs,' it's not like it can come and get us!"

"Please, you have to keep watching it!" The Doctor shouts again.

Despite how confident Sherlock is that it is impossible for the angel to get out of the screen and attack the, he cannot ignore a little voice in his brain that is telling him to do as the Doctor says. The Doctor is almost as persuasive as Mycroft, but because he doesn't know the Doctor as well as he does Mycroft, he reasons, he decides not to ignore him and turns around to humour him instead. And then he almost screams, almost, because although there is not much in the list of what this world can do to unsettle Sherlock Holmes, a screen containing the image of a bloodthirsty stone angel leering down at him is quite enough to gain a place on that much revered list.

_Moriarty would probably do well to take lessons, _Sherlock thinks to himself.

"It can get us,' the Doctor says, his voice a little less panicked now but still frantic,' I have no idea how, but I know it can."

Sherlock doesn't look away from the angel on the screen, instead he looks at the neckline of its grey robes. He hears the Doctor clamber down from the pod, presumably having disabled the security camera, and feels their shoulders brush as he leans past Sherlock to point at a button on the screen with his Sonic Screwdriver.

"Whatever takes the image of an angel becomes itself an angel." The Doctor says, waving his sonic screwdriver around in front of the screen in zigzagging patterns. He looks frustrated, his brow creased and a small frown on his face.

"That's impossible,' Sherlock says.

"Saying it's impossible won't make it any less true,' the Doctor replies,' I've seen it happen before, and having another angel running around here is not the sort of thing that will make us any safer."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, still not entirely believing him, but stays silent. The Doctor is looking increasingly irritated, waggling the sonic screwdriver over the control panel and muttering to himself. With a frustrated yelp his bangs his fist down on the control panel, which bleeps rather loudly and suddenly the picture on the screen goes black.

"There we go!" the Doctor says triumphantly, taking a step back.

"We should try and find that crystal,' Sherlock says, eager to get back to the original task,' the longer we stay here the more danger we're in."

The Doctor makes a small noise of agreement and rubs his hands together, spinning himself in a small circle as if to try and take in everything at once.

"Where should we start,' he asks, a wide grin on his face,' or have you already figured out where it is?"

"Well,' Sherlock says,' while I haven't quite gotten as far as finding the precise location of the hiding spot yet, there are only so many places in such a small space."

_Small, black, about the size of an apple_, he recalls, eyes darting about the room. The dim red light makes it difficult to see any of the finer details, so Sherlock turns around to pick up the torch. A boom of thunder echoes around the walls, sounding far off as if it is in the distance, but through the force field barring the door he sees the walls shake ever so slightly. Apparently this room is relatively soundproof. He can also see John, who is standing just out of his viewing range. Sherlock can just see his jumper, the one with the leather patches at the elbows that he likes to wear to seem more battle-hardened and dependable in the face of danger. It makes him grin.

Picking up the torch Sherlock turns back around and flicks the switch, sending a straight beam of light barrelling into one of the two pods that line the right hand wall. They are identical, lying horizontal and pushed up against the wall. They seem to be made of metal, judging by the bright sheen that they give off when Sherlock shines the torch against them, and reinforced by the clang they make when Sherlock bangs his fist against the side of one.

The Doctor is sitting on the control panel, watching him with keen eyes. His gaze is casual but expectant, as if he is simply waiting for Sherlock to find all the right answers and all the little clues. It doesn't take long before the Doctor begins rattling off questions, like Sherlock has been waiting for him to do. They start out simple, much like the usual questions he is asked when he first meets someone new. How does he deduce so much information from so little information? How does he like solving crimes? Simple, boring little questions that he eventually gets irritated with. The Doctor had seemed so much less mundane than this, the least he could do was ask some interesting questions.

And then he does.

Never before has Sherlock been asked if he has ever worn a 'deer stalker'. He has never even heard of such a thing, but refrains from asking the Doctor for an explanation or an example and decides to Google it when he arrives back at the flat.

From there on the questions get a little more personal, but a lot more interesting. The questions turn into conversation, and as Sherlock is mucking around with the wiring inside the capsules he and the Doctor are talking like old friends, discussing animatedly how tedious yet secretly satisfying it is having to explain yourself, your knowledge and your observations to others, why television should never have been invented, and where it is and is not appropriate to keep various body parts. The Doctor takes the usual standpoint on this issue and appears faintly disgusted. He also agrees with John's belief that severed heads should not be kept in the fridge and that fingers need to stay out of the oven.

"Well, can't you at least warn him the next time you want to start fiddling around with electrodes?" The Doctor is saying, his hands gesturing wildly as he talks. This is something that Sherlock finds interesting, because he has never met anyone that gesticulates quite so wildly while trying to argue a point.

"I tried warning him once,' Sherlock replies as he examines the inner circuit board of one of the capsules,' but he didn't get the text and then threw out the entire experiment when he arrived home and found the frogs in the sink. It took me a week to repeat, and trying to find frogs of the same mass as the previous ones took an absurdly long time."

"Well maybe you shouldn't have been using hydrochloric acid."

"That would have spoilt the exp- ah."

"What is it?" the Doctor asks, sliding off the control panel and coming down to kneel next to Sherlock.

"This wiring for the neural monitor, it's running down through the floor, and so do the other three capsules."

"So they're all being powered from the same spot." The Doctor says, catching on to Sherlock's train of thought.

Sherlock grins and stands up. His coat, scarf and gloves are still lying crumpled next to the Doctor where he has abandoned them for increased freedom of movement. He is feeling exhilarated, and then an absolutely _demonic_ noise rings out across the room, a sound that sounds like screaming and screeching metal and birdcalls, and Sherlock actually feels _panic_ wring a knot in his stomach.

"I take it that was the angels, then?" he says, because there is little else it could be.

"That was the angels _laughing_." The Doctor clarifies.

"I wouldn't want to hear them screaming, then." Sherlock mutters. He walks to the centre of the room and stands still for a few moments, then taps his foot against the metal floor, listening to the soft metallic clang. He smiles.

"Found it."

"Ah, fantastic!" the Doctor says, rubbing his hands together and pulling out his sonic screwdriver. He points it at Sherlock's feet and presses a button and the green light at the end flashes. A panel just to the left of Sherlock's heel slides open soundlessly, and Sherlock steps back as the Doctor darts forwards. They both kneel down and stare into the small space that has opened up in the floor, a hole about ten inches across. Inside is a mess of wires, and in the very centre, a small, black crystal, sitting in a small metal socket. The Doctor reaches forwards very slowly, very carefully, and pulls the crystal from the socket, and he sighs in relief when it is firmly grasped in his hand.

"It's smaller than I thought it would be." Sherlock says absently as the Doctor puts the crystal into a pocket of his jacket.

"Well, at least we have it now,' the Doctor says,' we can get out of here."

Sherlock nods in agreement and goes to retrieve his coat while the Doctor turns to walk out through the force field. However, there is a muffled thump and the Sherlock turns around to see the Doctor on the floor, rubbing his nose furiously.

"I can't get through,' he says incredulously,' I thought it would only be a one way force field, the kind that stopped things from getting in."

"Well just use your screwdriver to open it." Sherlock replies, fixing his scarf back around his neck. And then the Doctor stops, the screwdriver still in hand but not pointed at anything, because the room beyond the little alien pod has been plunged into darkness. When the light flickers back on seconds later Sherlock sees John dash past the doorway, bending to pick up something just out of sight, shaking it furiously with a terrified look on his face.

There is a rather muffled but still loud shout of "Doctor!" from the other room, and the Doctor freezes.

"Amy!" the Doctor shouts as the room outside goes dark again, and the Doctor thumps the force field viciously, swinging his screwdriver around all over the door frame and muttering to himself furiously. This time it is Sherlock's turn to follow the Doctor's logic, and he really doesn't like the conclusion. The angels are coming for the crystal, and are playing with the torches batteries, somehow messing with the electricity. And they will be trapped in this small room, unable to do anything.

And even though he has tried so hard to keep John alive, his neck will be snapped in a matter of seconds, and there is nothing that Sherlock can do about it.

Sherlock freezes when he hears a voice, John's voice, shout out his name.

"Why won't you open?" The Doctor mutters angrily to himself, and Sherlock darts over to stand a few paces behind him, desperately searching for any little clue that will break the force field down. Almost instantly his eyes land on a small cluster of wires just above the doorway, and when he shows them out to the Doctor the Doctor points his sonic screwdriver at the cluster and yells triumphantly as it shoots sparks.

It takes a grand total of five seconds for the force field to disappear. In these five seconds, Sherlock watches as John pulls his gun out of his jacket and point it at the door with a look of determination on his face.

After these five seconds, the force field shimmers blue, and then fades away. And the light in the room beyond abruptly goes out.

**End Chapter Five**


	6. Morality, And All It Entails

**AN /: Alright, here it is, **_**the one you've all been waiting for!**_** It's the last chapter as well, so I hope everybody has enjoyed this little project, which has just gotten so much more attention than I ever bargained for. As for the ending, well. I just couldn't resist. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, favouriting, and putting this story on alert and all that, it means the world to me.**

O.o.O.o.O

_**The Angel, The Detective, And The Phone Box**_

_**Ch 6. Mortality, And All It Entails**_

Even though the lights are off for a total of two seconds, to John it feels like it is dark for an eternity. He fires his gun once, blind, in the hope that it will do _something_, but instead he hears the bullet rip through the wall.

He is living in slow motion, his life playing like a film reel behind his eyes, bright against the darkness. There are snippets of his childhood, memories of his time in Afghanistan, _the sounds of bullets and cries of pain, the smell of blood and metal, the sight of sand and explosions,_ a few fleeting memories of blissfully normal dates with Sarah, and finally, _Sherlock_. Every case, every chase, every escape and every arrest, they roll into one infinite memory that lasts all of a split second.

There is a rustling and he feels his gun pushed aside faster than physically possible, his arms flung apart, and he loses his grip on both the torch and his gun and hears them crash against the wall. It all happens too quickly for him to properly think about what is happening, but all he knows is that he is about to die. He has survived Afghanistan, been shot, narrowly avoided explosions, narrowly avoided being shot _again_, escaped from the clutches of a psychopath, and now he is going to me killed by an alien that looks like it has stepped out of hell, and is from outer space to boot. Oddly enough, he never thought that it would end this way.

A light somewhere to his right flickers on, and John feels relieved that he isn't dead yet. And then the relief rapidly changes to fear, and he has to let out a terrified yell because there is an angel staring into his face, its mouth gaping open and its stone fangs bared. His gaze drops automatically to its feet, not because he remembers the Doctors warning, but because it feels like its gaze is sucking out his soul. Behind him he hears both Amy and Rory scream, and he is relieved to know that they are alive.

"JOHN!"

He hears the panicked yell, and it's certainly from Sherlock. He hears footsteps, and suddenly a hand is grabbing his arm, pulling to get his attention.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asks, and John hears an undercurrent of rare fear in his voice.

"Yeah, fine,' John replies in a strangled voice, which is a total lie but he's trying to reassure himself as much as anyone else, and when he peers at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye he sees panic in the man's eyes to match his voice. It is a strangely intimate moment the second their gazes lock, and it is a little uncomfortable. John clears his throat and Sherlock gets the message, taking a step back and looking a less worried.

Now to focus on the task at hand. He has been trying to avoid it for as long as he can, but now he has to focus on the fact that the angel had been reaching for his neck. Its stone hands have, in fact, just begun to curl, and although he can slip through its grasp easily enough, it takes a phenomenal amount of self control not to panic. He takes a step back and feels stone glide across his throat. It is only the tips of the fingers that give him trouble because they have just begun to curl and they press into his skin. When he is sure that he is free he lets out a sigh of relief, and backs away as quickly as he can.

The Doctor is now holding the torch that Sherlock had been carrying before, holding it at chest height. His expression is indescribable, and the light illuminates only half of his face.

"We found the crystal,' Sherlock says, his moment of panic gone and his calm tone of voice back,' so I suggest we leave, now."

"Brilliant idea, I totally agree,' the Doctor replies, handing the first torch back to Sherlock before going over to pick up the torch that John had dropped and holding the sonic screwdriver to the bulb. It flickers meekly but returns back to full power, and the Doctor hands it over to Rory. John goes to pick up his gun, and as he slips it under his jacket and into the waistband of his jeans he notices the disdainful look on the Doctor's face.

"Alright gentlemen, lets hold hands and get the hell out of here." Amy says. She is still pale but no longer looks shaken. Now there is a glint in her eye and excitement in her voice, and maybe just a hint of enthusiasm.

Once again John reaches for Sherlock's hand, and this time it feels like Sherlock is squeezing tighter than strictly necessary. With his other hand he holds his hand out to Amy, who in turn holds her hand out, and Rory beats the Doctor to her. The Doctor is left to grab Rory and Sherlock's hands, and Sherlock looks as if he is not quite sure what to make of this.

They walk out the door one by one, and it appears that the angels have been expecting them. There are five, surrounding the bottom of the staircase, staring upwards with their hands by their sides.

"Well, this isn't making things much easier,' Rory says.

"There's still enough space to get past them, we just need to keep our eyes peeled,' the Doctor says, and then he raises his voice to address the angels,' you're not getting it, do you hear me? I'm going to take it somewhere you can never get to it and you can just wait here forever."

A chill shoots down Johns spine as he walks down the stairs, getting closer to the angels than he would really like. After a quick look at the Doctor and a split second battle of wills, Sherlock rather forcefully pulls both the Doctor and John under the arms of the angels. John keeps his eyes clapped on each one they pass.

Once they are past the angels the Doctor takes the lead and pulls them through the hallway, past already open doors and out into the gardens. No-one speaks as the Doctor guides them towards a far off corner of the garden, and John begins to wonder why they are making a beeline towards the blue police box that he had seen earlier. The circle breaks as the Doctor lets go of Sherlock and Rory to fish around in his jacket pocket, withdrawing a pair of keys which he slips into a hidden lock in the blue door.

"Is this the spaceship you said you had earlier,' Sherlock begins in a very unimpressed tone,' because it looks a lot like a..."

He trails off as the Doctor opens the door, and all John can do is gape. The inside of the police box didn't look how it should have looked. It looked bigger. Much bigger. And it was _warm_, bathed in a soft golden light. A hand on the small of his back shoves him inside, and he stumbles into the large room, still staring as the door closes behind him and the Doctor stands beside him.

"So, what do you think?" The Doctor asks.

"It's bigger on the inside,' John says,' how is it bigger on the inside?"

"Quantum physics?" Sherlock guesses from beside him, but it's a half hearted guess and Sherlock is already walking up to the control panel, under the control panel, and then around the edges of the massive room with a hand out to feel the metal as he goes.

"How about we get you two home,' the Doctor says calmly, although he is trying his best to hide a rather large grin,' let me guess, 221b Baker Street?"

"Yep,' John says, still staring. He blinks a few times and then walks up to the control panel. Well, it looks a lot like a control panel anyway. The Doctor is dashing about madly, pulling levers and pushing buttons like he knows exactly what each of them do, and John just leans back and watches him work with the same awe he usually gives to Sherlock's deductions. Suddenly there is a very loud sound like nothing he's ever heard before, a sort of whirring and grating that reverberates through his body and makes him feel warm and comforted, and then the whole room shifts to the left and John is sent sprawling. He stumbles about and ends up crashing into Rory, and both men apologise profusely and try to pull themselves back up.

"Sorry about that,' the Doctor says, taking a small black stone, probably the crystal that they were looking for, out of his pocket and putting it into a small compartment that has popped out of the base of the control panel, then standing up and leaving against one of the railings,' she's a temperamental old thing." He runs a hand over the railing lovingly.

"So this is a spaceship, then." John says, trying to reaffirm the facts in his mind.

"Yep,' the Doctor says,' called the TARDIS, T.A.R.D.I.S, stands for time and relative dimensions in space. And it's bigger on the inside."

"And it's taking us home?"

"It could take you home yesterday or last year if you want, it's a time machine, not just a space ship."

"That's amazing."

"I think she likes you."

John grins. He'd always had a bit of a weakness for sci-fi shows on the telly, but this is just taking the cake. Without warning there is another jolt, and there is the faint sound of splashing water. John stumbles forwards, narrowly avoiding being hit on the head by the console.

"Are you sure she likes me?" he asks as he stares through the grate below for a few seconds before righting herself.

"She's an old thing,' the Doctor says,' she's just being temperamental."

"A bit like Sherlock then,' John says, then frowns,' actually, where's Sherlock gotten to?"

Right on cue Sherlock reappears from behind doors that John hadn't seen before, and he has to stifle a laugh because Sherlock is absolutely sopping wet, his hair plastered to his face and his coat transformed into a miniature water feature dripping trails of water from the hem.

"I fell in the swimming pool." He says before anyone can ask.

"Is the library still there?" The Doctor asks.

"Yes it is,' Sherlock says, his tone rather miffed,' I almost tripped over a copy of the Raxacoricofallipatorian dictionary on my way out."

"You're one of the first people I've ever met to pronounce that right the first time around,' the Doctor notes, and the his face turns thoughtful,' um... would you like a towel?"

"A towel would be nice, yes,' Sherlock admits, and it's the most humble John's ever seen him.

Five minutes later sees Sherlock wrapped in the fluffiest white towel that John has ever laid eyes on, sans coat and scarf, and he looks utterly ridiculous. It's worse than the shock blanket, and John wishes dearly that he could take a picture, Lord knows he'd need the picture for blackmail every time Sherlock decides the fridge is an acceptable place to store body parts. Right now he is standing next to Sherlock and leaning against the railings that run around the control panel. Amy and Rory have disappeared under the control panel and the Doctor is dashing around, twisting knobs, pulling levers, and John has long since given up trying to work out what any of them do. Despite how busy he is the Doctor is chatting animatedly with Sherlock, and the two of them are getting along like old friends.

"Ooh, we're here,' the Doctor says as John hears the funny grating noise. Sherlock looks disappointed, and he actually pouts, just a little bit.

"You're only taking us home? I though you said this was a space ship!" Sherlock protests.

"And a time machine." Rory adds, his voice drifting up from below.

"Can't you take us somewhere?" Sherlock prompts.

"I suppose I could,' the Doctor says as he leans back against the console,' where do you have in mind? The Victorian era?"

"What? No, that would be boring,' Sherlock says,' what about another planet?"

"You're just trying to make Mycroft jealous, aren't you." John says with a smile and Sherlock hushes him but can't hold back a grin.

"I guess I could,' the Doctor says, and it appears the excitement is contagious,' yeah, why not? Right! So, we need a planet!"

"What about that one with the green sky, and the people that look like goldfish with dragon wings?" Amy asks as she walks up the stairs, Rory trailing behind her.

"Ah, I remember that one,' the Doctor says, already beginning to work with the dials and a few switches,' the food is absolutely brilliant, and the royal family owes me a few favours."

"What are the crime rates?" Sherlock asks.

"How about we sightsee instead?" John says more forcefully.

"Sightseeing at the planet of green skies and dragon-winged fish people it is,' Amy says, grinning from ear to ear,' oh, this is great, I'm going sightseeing with _Sherlock Holmes_ !"

Sherlock seems a little disappointed but otherwise more excited than John has ever seen him. He can't stop smiling, and his enthusiasm is bordering on manic. Somehow he still manages to seem dignified, though.

There is another thud and this time John only just loses his footing, but he has had the good sense to hang onto the railing and manages to stay upright. The Doctor only just manages to finish announcing their arrival before Sherlock darts down the stairs and throws open the doors, striding outside into... somewhere, into wherever they happen to be.

John walks down behind the Doctor and stares out at the green sky, completely cloudless and sporting an extra sun. With a great amount of courage and a rather painful pinch to make sure he isn't dreaming, he steps outside and sees soft, blue, seaweed-like grass underfoot and stretching out for miles. He takes a deep breath. The air is so clear it makes his head spin.

"Are you going to stand there or are you going to come out and experience the universe?" Amy asks, pushing past him.

"I pick the universe, obviously." John says, walking forwards, scanning the horizon for Sherlock, pinching himself again and definitely, definitely, never looking back.

**The End **


End file.
